


Stiles Stilinsky's Guide to Caring For Your Werewolf Pack

by bluerosele



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe-Teen Wolf, Gen, Hunters and Werewolves slap fighting for the right of Beacon Hills territory, M/M, Stiles deserves an instruction manuel to Werewolf keeping, Stiles is aggressively adopted, meet the pack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-01 08:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4013065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluerosele/pseuds/bluerosele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is just trying to make a quick buck. Single parenting police pension can only go so far to support his father and himself, and in fairness Stiles needs to be let off the leash and into the streets for adrenaline anyway. He never intended to get involved in some bizarre supernatural war just by spying on what happened to be an alpha of a werewolf pack but well shit happens. Stiles loyalties lie with the group his best friend never told him he was a part of, and whose leader gave him a sandwich instead of an intimidating threat for cash. Things go downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Drabbles? Maybe? Not sure? Sporadic need for sterek?

“You’ve been following me for the past hour—”

Stiles does not scream. 

Though, if he had screamed, it would've been totally acceptable and expected because honestly people don’t just suddenly materialize from no discernible spawning point, and whisper things like that into someone’s ear. Even if, in admittance to said aggressively whispered statement, the one being whispered to had in fact been following them for the past hour. 

He half stumbles in his spin that had meant to put more distance between him and the once advanced aggressor, but only ends up falling over the other man’s foot. Stiles is very convinced that had been planned. 

“Oh, God, okay. Jeez. Ow.” Stiles says to the ground and the shoe facing towards him. Yeah. Planned. 

“You’ve been following me for the past hour.” The shoe taps his shoulder to push him over, and Stiles can look over his hands grasping his possibly broken nose to see the almost exasperated expression of his target. “Why have you been following me for the past hour.” It’s not even a question, like being followed (very stealthily Stiles would like to add) is something that’s happened to him enough where it’s not so much worrisome but bothersome. 

“Um,” Stiles honks out of his pressured nose, and wow that’s not at all how he wants to sound right now. Very intimidating. “I…wasn’t?” 

The other guy (and yeah, he should know his name by now, that’s sorta his whole job. Sneak up on the bad guys, investigate their outings, learn stuff about them, but, hey, he’s already failing at one-third of that so might as well get the rest done) doesn’t throw him up against the wall. He doesn’t threaten everyone Stiles has ever loved, or met, or even looked at, warning him against getting mixed up in this big scary world he has no idea about. He just blinks. And seems more taken aback by that rather than the actual pursuing.

“You can understand how the half-assed somersaults back there could lead me to believe otherwise?” 

“They weren’t somersaults—” Stiles tries to sit up, give himself some more dignity in defending his sneaking techniques, but the motions throws him back in a unsuspected pain in his right shoulder. He whimpers and falls back again. 

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess this is your first time doing,” he waves over Stiles’ (manly and dignified) writhing. “Whatever this is.” 

“ _No,_ ” Stiles says. The guy’s face (perpetually perturbed it would seem) stays stationary, except for the expecting eyebrow that rises. “What? Is this not your first time being followed? Am I doing something wrong here?” 

“No. And yes, very much yes,” the guy nods, but reaches down as if to help Stiles up. Stiles is…apprehensive to say the least. Apprehensive in the sense of flinging himself (shoulder be damned) across the alleyway and into the far wall. 

Which is just about the stupidest thing Stiles has ever done. Most of his collision is cushioned by his other shoulder and in reaching for said shoulder he both stretches the already injured first shoulder and swipes across his now bleeding nose. 

The guy holds his hands up, as if he’s somehow the one who pushed him back there (which he kinda sorta is), and makes a lot of dejected and horrified nosies. Like he’s just now become invested in this interaction and the course its taken. 

“Hey, calm down. It’s fine, you’re fine. Just. Stop with the self mutilation, alright?” 

“No, I know how this goes down! I’ve seen too much! I know too much! You can’t let me live now! You probably have one of those hand buzzer things of death like the Joker.”

Stiles takes a break to breath (not hyperventilate, breath). The guy just stares. Something in his eyes glint from flicking up, maybe its the nearby streetlamp, or maybe that murderer eyes things the people paying him are always going on about actually exits. Either way, it seems he finally recognizes what’s going on (which is great, really, Stiles has got no freaking clue now). 

“How desperate are they?” He says, and whether this is directed at himself, or Stiles, or the streetlamp, or stars, he makes no inclination and continues on, “God, how old are you, fifteen?”

Pain aside, Stiles had just about enough of this his entire life he takes no time in quickly spurting out, “Nineteen, you moron.” It’s absolutely stupid for this guy to say anything. He looks maybe two years older than him. Taller, more muscular, hairy, intimidating, not scrawny but besides that yeah no just alike. 

“Ah, yes because I should’ve assumed as much with the most accessible fear to you in that moment being the Joker, and cleverest comeback you could think of being moron.” The guy approaches again, slower this time, and reaches out. “I can’t say a lot to make you trust me, but I can promise you this now,” he smiles and it’s not sinister or stretched out or green, just more of a bearing of teeth. “I’m not the Joker.” 

Stiles looks at the hand. It’s not much to go on, but it’s enough right now. He takes it. He does not die. 

The guy helps him up, somehow dispelling the pressure and weight off his shoulder in mostly lifting him, and shakes his hand. “Well, then, we both survived that, didn’t we?”

“Unless you, I don’t know, injected me with a small needle and I’m going to die in the three seconds.” 

The guy nods. “Yeah, you never said I couldn’t do that. Better go on explaining yourself now before you die soon.” 

Stiles doesn’t know how to take this and tries to cover up examining his hands by blowing into them. The warm air from his mouth turns to cold streams outside his fingers and he feels fine (as fine as he can). “If I were dying anyway, why would I explain myself?” 

“Clear conscience. Nice to go out on a good note.” 

“Nice to not go out on any note.” 

The guy laughs, and it’s husky and unused. “All symphonies end, kid.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes, “Stop with the philosophical shit. And I‘m not a kid.” He blows into his hands again, but his coughing makes the release of air disjointed. He rubs his nose blood on the back of his sleeve, and turns back to the guy. “Listen, I don’t have much to say either. I was s’pose to follow you, take down some notes, bring them back.”

“Bring them back to who?”

“Tell you if I could, but I can’t.” 

The guy looks up past the hat he’s wearing. “If they’re threatening you—”

“Aw, shut up,” Stiles bundles his hands into his sweatshirt pockets. “I don’t take threats well. They had money, though. Didn’t give me their names, that’s all.” 

“So,” the guy says, and chews his bottom lip. “You just took a job from a group of nameless strangers to follow another nameless stranger in the hopes the same nameless strangers will reward you for telling them about the stranger?” Everything about the world falls in the guys eyes at Stiles’ apparent complete lack of regard for ‘stranger-stranger-information-exchange’ etiquette. 

Stiles tilts his head to the side. “I’m going through some stuff,” he deadpans. 

“Obviously.”

“I’m not the one who has random strangers asking other random strangers to investigate me.”

“You will after this.”

Stiles jumps a little at that, “What—?”

“So, what’d you find out for them?” The guy paces back to the near exit of the alleyway, as if considering to just bail on Stiles, as if he can’t waste anymore time on him. 

Stiles doesn’t do anything. The guy glances back and groans. “Are we still not over this?” He full turns around to Stiles and points to himself. “Batman.” He points to Stiles. “You wanna be Robin, you gotta help me out. I can deliver the information that wasted your time with. What’d you get?” 

“That you’re a dick,” Stiles only mostly means to say, but has the decency to cover up his mouth with his oversized sweatshirt sleeve. Batman can get pissed off pretty easy. 

The guy seems to smile, but it’s swiped away fast. He walks forward, and Stiles is used to feeling small compared to other people, but he’s absolutely minuscule to this guy. “Want to try that again?” 

“Yeah, no, I mean.” Stiles cracks his neck to this side. “You saw me. I’m not good at…You’re tall?”

Stiles pauses. The guy nods. “Good start, go on?” 

“You, ah, you always stomp your left foot when you’re trying to figure out which turn to take? Like a,” Stiles does a little sidestep jig with his foot. “That. And—”

“Okay, I don’t need the mental image, I know that much about me. I just want to—did they not tell you anything about…?” The guy seems to think this over to himself, while Stiles’ left on the outskirts of his usefulness. 

“You’re not bad.” 

The guy’s head snaps up. He tries to cover it up by letting his head travel around, like he heard something else but Stiles knows he’s struck something. “I don’t know exactly what" he waves over the brick of a man. "They thought you were, or if that meant you…” this seems too much for a possible on-the-run-convict-refugee-hero-person he just meet today but he keeps going. “I’ve been in that place and know when someone good is said to be bad and. You’re not bad.” 

The guy stays still, like if he moves too fast Stiles will scamper down the alleyway. “Got all that did you?” 

“Not much, but I tried.” 

“A for effort. I’ll be sure to pass it on.” 

The guy tilts back to himself, and rubs his hand across his face. He heads down the alleyway and Stiles ducks his head to start the opposite way. He hears the scuff of shoes spin. “Well?” Stiles turns and sees the same expectant eyebrow. “C’mon then.”

“You look like you haven’t eaten in what four days?” Stiles's stomach growls in agreement. “There’s a diner two blocks from here. I suspect they’ll try to kill you before sunset. Stick with me and it’ll make it harder on them.” 

In the moment, Stiles isn’t exactly sure what pushes him out of the alleyway. Maybe it was the food. Maybe he’s always wanted to meet Batman. Either way he gets a sandwich out of it. 

“Stiles,” he sticks out his hand. 

The guy looks over his hand as if he’s worried Stiles’ the one hiding the weapon now. He finally shakes it. “Hale.”

They walk down the street towards the diner. Stiles starts to speak. 

“It’s not really Hale is it?”

“Nope.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets a sandwich but will spurn the sandwich until someone confesses to being a lousy secret vigilante friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sick LE is sick and doesn't know words anymore than she usually does so I'm sorry for any and all this chapter will be.

Stiles hasn't eaten in the last twenty two hours. Stiles' stomach would like to aggressively remind him of this fact as they sit across from the free sandwich Mysterious Batman Hale has provided at the dinner that didn't turn out to be jargon for murder place. But Stiles cannot focus on said sandwich at this time he's too busy glaring with all his might at his supposed best friend sitting across from him, expression blank and seeming as if this is just a normal outing with a group of normal supposed "bad guys". 

"Bro, I can explain--" 

"No. Na-ah you don't get to 'Scott' your way out of this one."

Scott's face somehow looks even more crestfallen (which Stiles didn't even know was physically possible) and Stiles is about to lay off until Scott has to be even more Scott and talk. "Scott my way out of?" He looks around confused as if his other apparent friends he never informed Stiles about somehow would know what's going on. The blonde one who looks like a punk rock comic strip materialized shrugs. 

Stiles groans loudly enough to echo off the walls of the diner, which gets him some looks mostly from the secret assassin club Scott has but Stiles is beyond done with caring. "To Scott, adverb, used in a sentence: Scott Scotted his way out of being in so, so much friend trouble for not telling aforementioned great best friend he was in a gang of super pretty possible mafia by batting his eyelashes and using puppy eyes because he was 'sorry super secret vigilante didn't want to give my best friend the dets'."

Scott scoots down the booth he's sitting adjacent to Stiles, and the rest of his gang (who also decided for some reason to sit next to and on top of that side of the booth instead of with Stiles, which just, rude) turn towards him a bit as if protecting him. Like Stiles is the one wrong here. This sandwich is about to be slammed into Scott's face, he doesn't even care about being murdered anymore it'd make the most sense out of everything else going on.

"Isn't it a verb?"  

Stiles looks up from trying to burn holes into Scott at the one guy who isn't huddled around Scott and actually leaning towards him, who looks like what Scott thinks a superhero would without a cape. 

"What?"

"To Scott, isn't it a verb?" His tone isn't scathing or corrective, sounding like one of this rare teachers that actually wants their student to learn something. Stiles wants to be annoyed but his eyes are brown and kind and he for some reason sets Stiles at ease. 

"Yeah, probably, I'm a smart ass without the smart. English wasn't my strong suit." The man smiles all teeth, and sticks out a hand that's the size of Stiles' face. 

"Vernon Boyd. Sorry to meet under confusing circumstances. We promise we're not a super secret organized crime squad." Stiles reaches across to shake the strangers hand (which also does not have a buzzer of death) and it's warm and crisp and Stiles is like instantly comforted. The creepy factors won't stop.

"I liked pretty vigilantes more," the blonde winks and Stiles wants to bang his head on the table for his lack of verbal inhibition during stress (or all the time. Really.) "Your initiation should be easy then, cupcake. Though with your stature the blood sacrifice might take its toll."

Stiles can't tell if she's joking or not, Stiles can't tell anything anymore. 

"Play nice, Erica," Hale finally speaks. He puts his arm around the top of Stiles' side of the booth, being the only one to sit with him. Stiles is processing too much to figure out what that means. 

"What? Fresh meat is fun, we don't get to play with our food so much," Erica's teeth glint, and somehow seem stronger in their beared grin. Stiles definitely does not gulp, that'd be cliche and Scott (lame gangster friend he is and all) wouldn't let him get eaten. Right? 

Scott's head does perk up and he makes a noise Stiles has never heard in the past nineteen years they've known each other. "He's not fresh meat, he's not in, I don't care what he's seen or knows or whatever" this he's turned and directed his words at Derek, "he's off limits, got that?" 

A vibration permeable enough for Stiles to sense it sets through the air and Scott tenses and shakes it towards Derek, who, for the most part, looks unfazed. Stiles doesn't know what this is, or who this Scott is, but he really needs new friends. 

Whatever the fuck just happened there seems to settle as Derek rolls his head around exasperated, and Scott deflates. He turns to Stiles. "What are you even doing here, man?" 

"What am I--oh my god no you can't ask that I ask that--I've _been_ asking that!" 

"It's hard to explain--" 

"Got nothing better to do!" Stiles doesn't mean for that to come out so loud but he's tired and confused and hungry so, so hungry. 

"Jesus Christ, eat your dammed sandwich already." A puff ball of hair with a face and scarf says. Scott asks if puffball "Issaac can go five minuets without being a douche" while Stiles begins to wonder if reading is a part of whatever this is because he will runaway to Canada if it gets to that point. 

Stiles, or rather Stiles' stomach, does however eat the sandwich with a little less dignity than he'd like to make an impression with Scott's secret super friends. 

"Aw, he eats like us too," Erica rests her head on her hand, the blonde waves rustling over the counter. "Can we keep him at least? I promise to take him on walks, and feed him, and--" 

"Stop trying to make my best friend your pet." 

"It makes just as much sense as anything else going on here," Stiles attempts to mumble around the BLT. 

"Derek," Scott's doing a Scott again and his eyes plead with the guy next to Stiles. Ah, okay, not Hale little anticlimactic. "Why is he here?" 

"Hunters paid him to track me," everyone around Scott their shit eating grins and consider Stiles carefully. Huh, this must be what being intimidating is like. He's always wondered. "He says he didn't know what he was doing. He's not lying, I can smell it on him." 

" _Smell me_?" Stiles exclaims spitting out a bit of bacon. "What the actual fuck do you mean smell--"

"I can vouch for that, Stiles wouldn't follow through with it if he knew." Scott keeps his gaze locked on him with the upmost trust and loyalty. Stiles hates himself for loving him so much. 

"So what, he's just gonna follow orders from someone he doesn't even know? How much of an idiot do you have to be to do that?" Puff ball with scarf is becoming Stiles' least favorite. 

"Really, no he's just that stupid," Scott says and smiles. Stiles flicks a tomatoe at him. 

"At any point at this informal interrogation, which should be the other way around I remind you, is anyone actually going to explain what the hell is going on?" 

Everyones silent, until it's Derek who sighs put upon like Stiles asking questions is too much of a grievance to deal with. "The Hunters are going to kill him anyway," Scott jumps at the same time Stiles does. "We might as well, as Erica puts it, adopt him for awhile. Issaac go order us the usuals, its going to be a long night."  

" _Finally_ ," Stiles huffs. "Batman origin story time." 

"Oh God what is _that_ doing here," a smarmy voice appears behind Stiles and he doesn't have to turn around to know who it is.

"JACKSON," Stiles slams down on the counter. "JACKSON KNEW AND I DIDNT. SCOTT."  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets pie and a lesson about secret boundary wars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY so this chapter deleted itself because of course so this is my fast attempt at a memory rewrite so I'm sorry for all.

So, Stiles learns about werewolves. And its not by campfire, or under a blanket with a flashlight like his mom used to, but by his best friend and his worst enemy and mysterious brick of a man that he was supposed to be investigating ("not stalking! No it's not stalking when you don't know the stalking reasons for stalking") with cherry pie (because he's going to demand pie on Hale's tab while listening to this).

Stiles would say he handles it pretty well. He doesn't flip a table (cause he totally can do that. With effort) or storm out disowning previously mentioned secret werewolf supposed best friend. He calmly stands up and makes it about six steps and promptly passes out.

See, Stiles is smart. Natural is in supernatural for a reason. Science is science with enough empirical evidence; and this evidence is supplied by the consistent testimonies of six apparent pack members, and Puff Ball Scarf shooting out his hand covered with fur and claws. Which leads Stiles to his natural processing method. Passing out.

Suddenly, Scott's in his face, shaking his shoulders (cause that's what you do to someone's unconscious), screaming "Oh my God, oh my God we killed him--he's dead--Isaac you fuck. Oh my God his dad's gonna kill me, then my moms gonna kill me again and--"

"Nice to know your priorities when your friend is dead," Stiles pats Scott's face a few times to reassure him he is not in fact dead. He's scooped up and squeezed into mega arms belonging to what Stiles should've guessed were werewolf infused.

"Bro, I thought you had a heart attack--"

"You can literally hear it, Scott. See he's a trooper sitting up and everything," Erica cocks her head over to the side where Stiles' can see and isn't smushed into Scott. She smiles less bearing teeth and more a sweet manic raccoon smile. Stiles isn't sure which one he's more afraid of.

"I don't know how heart attacks work!" Scott bearhug--wolfhugs?--harder and "Ow, ow okay buddy I'm cool not dying but--not breathing might not help me--" Scott immediately lets go and scuttles backwards to the furthest corner of his booth.

Before Stiles can fall backwards without his suffocating but secure hold, a hand, least likely of hands, but human hand at the moment, grabs his. Stiles is yanked up by Jackson who holds him steady. Stiles might be most surprised by Jackson not being a complete asshole above all else. Then he smirks and the world is set in order again.

Stiles shakes him off, and wobbles with dignity to sit down next to Hale. "Okay, okay werewolf got it, but the thing I'm wondering," Stiles waves his hand around the empty diner, besides the apathetic waitress who waves back with the same level of astonishment. "Here? This is your meeting place?"

"Carla's on our side," Hale nods over. She turns around and wipes a table. Disinterestedly.

"Alright," Stiles says. "You tell. A waitress. But I'm--"

"I wanted to, man! But Derek--" Scott somehow shrinks further into his corner and Boyd barricades around him.

Stiles looks around for the onslaught Scott is sensing. The fist behind Stiles across the booth tenses and Hale's eyes are doing the murder thing again (which might actually be a thing) and he isn't sure what this standoff is but--

Oh.

 _Oh_.

"Holy Shit, you're Derek Hale!" Stiles flinches and expects Murder eyes to be flashed at him but Derek's face settles. "Sorry, I--I just didn't know you were still--"

"Wasting away in a burnt down house brooding like a stupid Victorian character," Puff Ball Scarf says sipping on his milkshake. Like he didn't just bring up traumatic backstory. And sip a milkshake. Stiles is really beginning to strongly dislike Puff Ball Scarf.

"Surprisingly a fire that kills your whole family only leave a couple of scorches and a fairly stable living space," Derek says and gives him the look Stiles understands because he's been that look. His mom taught him that look.

"The ash is a nightmare though--" Erica slumps down in her seat.

"Yeah, we need a serious wolf cave makeover," Jackson sits across the booths top.

"Why didn't you just tell me your name?" Stiles says ignoring Jackson, which is usually the best route to take.

"Didn't want you to influence your decision."

"What are you gonna wolfify me, again with the whole knowing too much and--"

Scott tenses up with the same weird vibrations again, and fuck those are growls aren't they. "Off limits I'm serious Derek I don't care what--"

"Settle down Scott, he's only got info from the Hunters. Didn't want another Allison situation."

Scott's tension turns. "Wait, was Allison a--"

"The Hunters are Argnets."

Oh, fuck. This adds a lot more to the ice cream and action movies Stiles had to offer as condolences with all he knew from romcoms. This is. Wow. Shakespearean. Or at least John Hughes. It's Scott it's probably both.

Stiles reaches across with a cut off "I'm sorry, man" and Scott smiles but shrugs like its nothing. He deserves so much more ice cream.

"I wanted your choice to be yours, not influenced by my rep and most importantly not one sided Hunters who literally call themselves Hunters."

Stiles laughs (not hysterically). Everyone stares at him. "Stop, I'm allowed one--one--" Stiles laughs harder and falls sideways into Hale--Derek Hale.

"Sorry, sorry okay what decision am I making?"

"Side," Derek looks down. "Which side you take?"

"What is this a game?"

"No," Derek's smile fades and Stile can feel the intensity from the other six sitting. "It's a war." 

Stiles stays silent for two seconds. They spend the next twenty minuets patiently listening to Stiles' laughter. Puff Ball Scarff orders another milkshake. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott gets human babysitting duty, and Stiles's world doesn't end completely.

In the last minuets of Stiles’s ending hysterics, the “Pack’s” (Jesus, they called themselves a fucking pack) general discomfort with sitting on one side of a booth, and Carla’s glare (that told Stiles while she was on “their side”, she was still pissed with people, however supernatural they be, keeping the diner open late), Derek decided, “This conversation needs a change of scenery.” 

“Oh, yeah, yeah that’ll help. Let’s go to the botanical gardens, have bonfire, it’ll set the mood for supernatural realizations.” Stiles hiccups, trying to breath after his mini laugh—panic—laugh attack, but still not allowing anyone to have the last word in.

“You’d be surprised,” Erica says with sincerity. Stiles rubs his temples.  

“Take his car,” Derek tosses Stiles’s keys to Scott, who looks surprised but catches them with ease anyway. The whole reflexes thing is starting to make sense to Stiles now. Figures. But, seriously, what the hell Stiles’s things being thrown around. 

“Hello, my car, my keys. How did you even get those—”

“Drive him to the house, we’ll talk about all this there. Thanks for holding up, Carla.” Derek waves, Carla’s face doesn’t change, and somehow maneuvers both himself and Stiles out of the booth. Suddenly, everyone’s surrounding Stiles and herding him out of the diner. 

“Whoa, hold on, okay is this a wolf thing? Please, stop with the aggressive herding,” 

“Well, dogs do help reign in stupid animals,” Puffball Scarf says. 

Erica slaps him on the back of his head and Stiles is beginning to appreciate Erica’s existence. 

“Shut up, Isaac, sheep aren’t stupid,” she doesn’t deny Stiles being a sheep but accepts the defense. He’s going to try to keep as many werewolves not wanting him dead as possible. “We prefer the term ‘Insistent Guiding’.” 

“Whatever it is it’s—”

“Confining? Yeah, sorry about that,” Erica waves her hands around. “Sorry about all of this.”

Yeah, Stiles very much appreciated Erica existing. 

He nods and they smile at each other in mutual understanding, that while one of them might have been exposed to this situation in a more experiential way, they were both just as confused at one point. The moment can only last so long, because Derek Hale is still here and had his car keys, and feels absolutely fine in commanding who they go to. 

“No, but really, I want my keys back. I don’t trust Scott with my baby right now, okay? How’d you even know I had my car?” Stiles says, still a bit disappointed in his sleuth skills. He’d parked the car faraway with the lights off and everything every cheap PI novel told him to do. 

When they reach the exit and are outside, Stiles is spun around to Scott’s careful and steadying presence while Derek begins walking backwards, flanked by Boyd and Puffball Scarf. “Another reason you might appreciate being on our side, you’re shit as Sherlock.” 

They turned leaving with their point made, and Jackson sidesteps Stiles. He smiles like an absolute supernatural smirking douche, which isn’t acceptable, so Stiles yells after them, “Not so subtle yourself, big-lumbering-leather-town-ghost-with-haunted-mansion-in-woods…guy!” 

So, it’s not Stiles’s best comeback.

Derek doesn’t acknowledge whatever that was, besides giving a brief wave and jogging off with his _pack_. Erica stays back a little hopping backwards saying, “Friends don’t let friend drive after finding out about friends being in the supernatural world,” as she disappears with the rest of everyone else. Scott and Stiles are left alone in a quiet lamp-light street of a world Stiles isn’t as aware of as he thought he had been two hours ago. The stars flicker in and out. 

“So,” Scott sways back and forth on his toes. “Where’d you park?” 

 

* * *

 

The ride back to Derek’s place (burnt down haunted house? Wolf den? Cave like resting area?) went better than Stiles’s expected, but probably worse than he needed to make it. Scott, while well meaning and a literal adorable puppy, did keep a fairly significant and world altering secret from supposed best friend Stiles. He should be appropriately treated for said Not Cool Best Friend Behavior. 

“Oh my God, Stiles, you literally said nothing through me having and playing the Top Gun theme song in my car—are you, are you giving me silent treatment? Are you even capable of the silent treatment?” 

Which might include Stiles acting like a dick, but that’s Stiles own supernatural power and he will goddamn use it against this new werewolf information. 

But, he’s still Stiles so, “Yes! Stiles is capable of the silent treatment! Quick call my dad, arrest me, I’m the one who should be in trouble here.” 

“No need, you talked, the world is set right again.” Scott does a stupid swivel around in his stupid chair with his stupid smile and Stiles wants to wring his stupid neck. 

“Dude, can you—not please? Supernatural identity discovery here okay? They give Batman’s love interests in movies more time to catch up.” 

“Well, most of the love interests in Batman movies already figured it out. Be it three seconds before he says the whole ‘I’M BATMAN’—but still,” 

“ _Dude_.” 

Scott makes a ‘what-am-I-s’pose-to-do’ whole body gesture about their current discussion, which is just unfair. The werewolf isn’t allowed to ask ‘what-am-I-s’pose-to-do’ about werewolves to the guy who just found out werewolves were a thing to figure out what to do with. 

Stiles takes hold of his head in both his hands, holding himself up with his knees. “Pull over.” 

“What? Wait, are you okay?” Scott sounds so worried and sad and Stiles needs to get out of this car right now. 

“Peachy. Pull over, right fucking now, Scott.”  

For the most part, Scott is a good guy. So, Scott pulls over, still chanting over whether Stiles’ is alright, and follows Stiles out of the car when he clambers out and trips over himself. Scott, again being a good guy, doesn’t say anything while Stiles rolls around in the dirt, breathing too fast. He just sits there, close to Stiles, but not touching, and waits it out.  

Scott really is a good guy. 

“Why didn’t you tell me, man?” Stiles muffles says, and presses the heels of his hands so hard into his eyes he sees stars that block out the actual ones outside. 

“I told you, I—I wanted to,” Scott must here how obvious he is when lying (ironically considering the situation, Stiles is really going to have to think about either how oblivious he was or how well Scott was at avoiding direct werewolf implying answers). “Would you hit me if I said it was to protect you?” 

Stiles gives Scott a face  to show him, yes, yes he would. Scott laughs and rolls his eyes. “What? Okay, fine, it was more selfish than that. I mean, I told Allison and well, that went. Not great. Didn’t know if the Stilinskis secretly had bimonthly recreational werwolf hunting trips.” Scott gives a self-deprecating smile that shouldn’t be allowed on Scott’s face no matter what’s happening.  

Stiles sits up, to be level with Scott when he says this, because it’s imperative that no matter how Stiles responds to the exposure of  not-so-mythical-myths being real, Scott understands what he’s about to say. “Scott, I don’t care if you sprout wings and the only way my father would acknowledge I were alive was if I shot a few pixies every now and then. This—whatever _this_ is—doesn’t affect us. Well, no not exactly true because yeah this is a big deal, but it only affects me getting the right to squirt you with a water bottle whenever you try to lie to me about serious shit going on in your life.” 

Despite Stiles’s lack of inhibition and how Scott is gooey as a person, they don’t have so many conversations like this often. This being the case, Stiles’s eyes might get a little wet, and Scott seem as ready to fall apart as Stiles feels. 

“Pixies?” 

Stiles punches Scott in the arm, “Don’t ruin the moment!” Scott falls backwards laughing, hard and full. “Pixies aren’t that hard to believe what with you apparently turning into a fur ball at the full moon or some crap like that.” Scott splutters out half-denials, and Stiles flops back onto his back. 

“So, do I need to report to your boss now or what?” 

Scott puts his hands behind his head and shrugs, “Nah, Derek’s a pain but he can wait.” 

“Am I not going to get you in trouble with the _pack_?”  

“Yeah. I probably won’t get the good parts of our woodland creature sacrifices for a while, but it’s fine.” Scott says, with enough candidness, Stiles’s isn’t sure what’s true anymore and this could be a completely viable werewolf activity. Then Scott giggles, and Stiles has to punch his arm several times again. 

They stay there awhile, next to the jeep and woods, and the stars outside don’t fall.


End file.
